


Emergere

by The_Readers_Muse



Series: Carpe Noctem [1]
Category: Queen of the Damned (2002), Vampire Chronicles - All Media Types, Vampire Chronicles - Anne Rice
Genre: Blood, Blood Drinking, Frottage, M/M, Picks Up Where the Movie Left Off, Slash, Smut, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-12
Updated: 2013-12-30
Packaged: 2018-01-04 09:59:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1079625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Readers_Muse/pseuds/The_Readers_Muse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The surprise on David’s face was exquisite, a sinuous melody of fear, uncertainty and shock. He inhaled, savoring it in all its shades as the man shot to his feet. His lips curled unrepentantly, displaying his fangs - a resplendent ivory-pearl - unwilling to stop the luxurious chuckle that rose up as David’s heart rate spiked.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own either the game or movie rights to Queen of the Damned, or the books they were based on, wishful thinking aside.  
> Authors Note #1: This is a ‘after the movie’ fic, meant to fit in directly after the credits rolled. I have never read the books that this movie was loosely based on, so the only source material that applies in the case of this fic is in regards to the movie.  
> Warnings: Spoilers for the movie, language, blood, blood drinking, Marius being a cheeky little shit and smut.

“…Hello, David.”

The surprise on David’s face was exquisite, a sinuous melody of fear, uncertainty and shock. He inhaled, savoring it in all its shades as the man shot to his feet. His lips curled unrepentantly, displaying his fangs - a resplendent ivory-pearl - unwilling to stop the luxurious chuckle that rose up as David’s heart rate spiked.

“Marius!” the Talamascan exclaimed as the book he’d been holding, a leather-bound journal that reeked of Lestat, tumbled to the floor. It was a subtle perfume, with Jessie’s scent balancing Lestat’s feral edges, but still striking in its own way. They seemed well suited for one another.

“You seem surprised,” he remarked, sinking into one of the chairs that dotted the man’s office, barely noticeable amongst the mounds of books and manuscripts that seemed to take up the entirety of the room.  “Did I not imply I would be visiting you again?”

“As I recall, you offered to show me your new paintings,” David returned, forging ahead – right to the point – just like he knew he would, returning to more familiar ground. He could practically taste the man’s eagerness, the tension that hummed just underneath his skin.

He closed his eyes, head cocking to the side, self-indulgent, as he listened. The rasp of the man’s breath, the thrum of his heart, the thick rush of his blood, it was all there – within his grasp.

_He was going to enjoy this._

“Indeed, but I think tonight is not the right time for such trivialities,” he explained, “not after what has transpired.” He leaned forward salaciously, enjoying the shiver as the man swayed in place.

Conviction rose up like the warmth of red slicking down his throat. Conviction that he’d _not_ been wrong, that he’d _not_ judged their situation incorrectly as he settled back into the cushions with a decadent sigh. _The man was his._ He’d known that since the moment he’d first laid eyes on him close to two decades ago.

He could smell the truth of it; the unspoken promise had aired out between them in Death Valley. It was choking and cloying in all the best ways, a siren song of blood and fire – a slow burn.It was simply the matter of interpreting the nature of that connection, that bond, which he needed to suss out.

“Don’t tell me the order is unaware of what has transpired? Are your heads so lost in your precious book to realize that history has been made here? This very night?” he teased, revelling in the stubborn blush that resulted when wounded pride rose quickly to the surface.

“Not all of us! We know – _I_ know what happened. The Queen, Akasha, is dead,” David retorted, slipping off his glasses with a sigh. The action was graceful in its inattention, polishing the lenses habitually, taking comfort in the familiar before he faced him again. “I assume we have you to thank for that?”

“Myself and others, yes. And at great cost,” he returned, tone sobering, genuine in its emotion before the silky purr reasserted itself. “But what is done, is done. Akasha was our mother, but everything has its time – everything withers – _yes_ , even _us_ ,” he remarked, fangs flashing as David’s mouth opened, brimming with unvoiced questions.

“It was something Lestat never understood, not until tonight. We are not so different, you and I,” he gestured, “humans and vampires. We come from the same stock, we were born into the same bodies. We held within us the same blood, the same worries, the same inane little cares. We are humanity’s legacy, in the flesh, yet out of time.”

“To look down on humanity is to look down on ourselves. Akasha was not meant to understand such things, nor to live in such times. She was not human. So that bond, that _connection_ we feel towards mortals was lost to her. Rather poetic, yes?” he finished, steepling his fingers as David blinked, seeming to have forgotten he was still standing, gawking, as he listened with unabashed interest.

“What is the expression?” he mused, eyes heavy-lidded as David dropped back in his chair, clenching the edge of the desk like a life-line in a way that was more endearing than irritating. “We live in interesting times?”

“A common misnomer, depending on how you view it. The phrase is largely considered to be a mistranslation of an ancient Chinese curse. But yes, I would certainly agree with the gist of it,” David murmured faintly.

“Is it really over then? The deaths across the Mediterranean? The news is calling them mass suicides, but there was leaked video - bite marks. Did you really-? How? Is she really-” The historian stuttered, seeming to blurt out his thoughts as they came to him - unfinished streams of consciousness so dissimilar from his careful prose that it was almost jarring.

“Yes, very dead I’m afraid,” he affirmed. A true hint of regret coloured his tone, enough that David’s gaze sharpened. He sighed. _How did one explain such a thing? Especially to a mortal?_ He could still feel her, her strength, her memories; they flowed within him now – a liquid fire that only added to the centuries old bouquet that flowed through his veins.

“While Akasha’s views _did_ hold a certain garish appeal, it was simply not meant to be. Her time was over long ago. She could have chosen to change with the times, to _evolve_. But she would not, it was not in her nature,” he finally allowed, choosing his words carefully as an image of the Queen, blackened to ash, surged behind his closed lids.

He sensed the questions hiding just underneath the surface as David closed his mouth with a snap. Seeming to come back to himself as his hand scrabbled across the table, instinctively searching for a pen. He smirked, silently amused, as he watched the internal struggle.

“But enough of this, you and I have history to discuss. Madrid was first, was it not?” he inquired. He’d been watching the man for a long time. It had been titillating to see him mature, his personality and quick wit only sharpening with age rather than growing stale.

He’d first noticed David Talbot – as fate would have it – at an art showing in Madrid. It had been a truly stifling evening in high summer and the man couldn’t have been more than twenty-five. It had been the smell of him that had interested him first, sullied with the bitter edge of sweat and a heady, natural musk that was all his own as he’d snuck in through the fire exit. He’d worn his hair longer then, all soft waves and careless curls. He’d been beautiful, but unremarkable all the same.

At the time, he’d dismissed him, preferring to watch the proceedings - the showing and sale of a small collection of his paintings - from a hidden spot amongst the rafters. If he was being honest, he’d enjoyed himself immensely, soaking up the banter, the discussion, the honest praise and eventual bidding as investors and collectors from all over the world attempted to put a price on more than a few rare pieces.

He hadn’t given the man a second thought until the next year when he’d showed up at an exhibit in Jerusalem. Then in Italy six months later, Salem the next, New York two years later and so on. He’d become a constant, every year without fail the man appeared, sometimes to bid, sometimes not, but his presence was _always_ a given.

Like Lestat in this new age, David had been tenacious and almost impossible to avoid. He would be lying if he said he _hadn’t_ been intrigued. And what he’d uncovered, even as much as a decade ago, had been more than promising. In fact, the man’s vigour and enthusiasm, his absent minded curiosity and unassuming sense of self had been more than enough to ensnare his interest.

“Are you here to kill me?” the man questioned, toneless save for a slight hitch in his breathing,answering his question with one of his own as the historian did his best to meet his stare.

He laughed, dark but melodious. “You know me better than that, David,” he chided, enjoying himself now.

The historian shook his head. “I knew the risk when I started, when my little obsession took root,” he explained, a private smile spreading across his lips, self-incriminating but honest. “That I might ask the wrong question or that word of my research might be heard by the wrong people. I accepted that. It was a risk I was willing to take – to know, to _understand_ ,” David continued, pressing on as his eyes grew distant.

“But I never imagined…well, _this_ ,” he finished, gesturing towards him weakly, looking mildly appalled at his rudeness even as he blinked owlishly, like he still didn’t quite believe his eyes. 

“And yet, here we are,” he hummed, letting the sound rise in the back of his throat, deep but crisp in its annunciation. He tapped his nails against the armrest, testing the grain – oak, nicely aged – before he sunk them deep into the worn polish, splintering the wood, blunting the points absentmindedly. The man’s pulse spluttered and he imagined the taste of him on his tongue.

“If you aren’t here to kill me, or to show me your paintings, then why are you here?”

He grinned, wicked and feral as humour danced in the back of his eyes. They flickered between pale blue and blood-red as he returned the man’s stare. Trust David to dig right down to the heart of the issue. _So impatient._ He would teach him to enjoy the build-up, to _savour_ the foreplay.

Lestat had always preferred instant gratification rather than the slow burn. When he’d turned him, he’d appreciated their differences, welcoming the tenacity, the boldness and youthful drive that had come along with it. It had reminded him of his youth, the screaming echoes of the arena, the blood song of battle, the dawn horn that blared out, bidding them to make haste and slay the enemies that threatened in the name of faceless rulers, forgotten gods.

It had reminded him of the feelings that had rushed in with every slash of his broadsword, every blunt slam of his fist as he’d toppled one opponent after another. The memories of his mortal life were faint, like echoes of some long forgotten song that haunted the farthest recesses of his mind. He was forever indebted to Lestat for reconnecting him with those memories. _It was far too easy to forget._

“My interest, when _aroused,_ is not piqued so easily,” he explained, lingering long enough on the word that the man’s pupils dilated. A split-second of heat before David blinked, fiddling with his glasses as he tried to collect himself. “I wish to understand why,” he finished.

“But how-?”

He shushed him, rising to his feet. One hand on his lips, emboldened when David did not startle or shrink back as he approached.

“All in good time, David, all in good time.”


	2. Chapter 2

He kept his eyes on the man as the soles of his shoes – Italian leather - hushed across the carpet. He kept his movements slow, unthreatening, impressed when the Talamascan held his ground. The man was wary, but _invested_ \- too deep to do anything else but let the future come and try to embrace it as it did.

_Perhaps they were more alike than even he knew._

The flutter of David’s Adam’s apple seemed delicate against the stubble that crowned his throat. _Such a delicate thing_. He breathed in though his nose, nostrils flaring as the man’s scent deepened. The room echoed with his pleasured sigh, the one humans found so unnerving – the sound of centuries sighing. But David’s expression didn’t falter, quite the opposite actually.

The scent of the man’s arousal rose and he nearly lost himself as every atom, every instinct, every straining _inch_ of him screamed for completion. The beast that existed at the very heart of him yearned to please, to ravage, savour, remake, to possess, to drink, to-

He closed the gap between them, moving faster than David could follow as he pushed the historian back into his chair with the flat of his palm. The man collapsed with a fettered gasp, glasses askew, eyes wide. He swooped down, resting on the edge of the desk not half an inch from the man’s coltish thighs – all knobbly knees and lean runner’s muscle as his pant legs brushed against the Talamascan’s hip.

He leaned down, forcing the man’s chair back, inch by inch, until David was practically reclining - vulnerable and flushing under his gaze. The tips of his fangs flirted with the plush of his lower lip, flashing in the low light as the man’s gaze fixated. _Staring._

“Are you aware of how my kind learns? How we share information?” he asked, voice a base-line purr as David, caught off guard by his boldness, squirmed in his seat, his heart beat an irregular, but alluring staccato.

David swallowed hard, struggling to find the words as he stuttered his way through an answer. The man’s lashes fluttered, fanning across the hollows as his tongue peeked out the corner of his mouth, considering. “I, well, I mean – _yes_ … I believe so.”

The pause was _delicious._ He enjoyed the process as he watched the thought form, witness to the realization as it spread across his face, unassuming and shocking, long before he put the idea to voice.

“You mean, you want me to-”

“With your permission, of course,” he replied smoothly, “I would certainly like to try.” He voiced it as if it were of no more importance than the weather, even though they both knew it was anything but.

“Isn’t that a little- ah, _extreme_?” David managed, sucking in a lungful of air as he smiled down at him, playing with his velvet cuffs as David worked through the implications of such a request. He enjoyed the rawness of the man’s scent as a slick of fear wove its way across the human’s features.

“I’m sure you are aware that such a thing is not offered lightly,” he added, filling David’s shocked silence with truths meant not to goad, but to encourage. He was biased of course, he would have the man, one way or another, but was convinced that a choice, regardless of how thin it actually was, would be infinitely more preferable than the alternative.

“Of course, I mean-I’m honoured, but I don’t want- well, what I mean to say is that I-”

He leaned forward, so close that he could feel David’s heat radiating outwards. The Talamascan’s words faltered, falling silent as he reached forward. He closed his eyes with the sheer pleasure of it as his fingers smoothed across David’s skin, following the curve of his cheek as he gentled his nails through the man’s stubble.

“…What-whatever happened to just wining and dining someone?” the man choked, a hint of his old sarcasm flavouring his words as he straightened, deliberately shortening the distance between them until the man’s breath skimmed, hot as a brand, across his skin.

His senses soared, a feeling quite unlike anything he’d ever experienced rippling across the surface of his conscious mind. There was something different about this one, he’d always known that, but _this-_

“Perhaps it _would_ be more appropriate,” he agreed, voice lowering in spite of himself, growing throaty and full as saliva trickled down from the roof of his mouth, he could practically taste him already. “But now is not the time for such things, I think.”

David’s shiver was certainly not lost on him as he took the man’s hand in his, tracing idle designs into the skin as David nearly hiccupped through a ragged gasp.

“Besides, I believe my son’s restlessness has finally worn off on me,” he posed, tangling their fingers together briefly, enjoying the heat of him before he began unbuttoning the man’s shirt cuffs, easing the fabric up inch by inch until his forearm was bare.

“You will have to forgive my impatience,” he continued, lulling the man into a vapid sort of calm as his closeness began to affect him. “My attempt at being more _modern_ , I suppose.”

“Marius, I-”

“Hush…” he soothed. “I cannot assure you that this will not hurt, but I can promise you that it will not be unpleasant. In fact, you might even enjoy it,” he teased, voice light despite the veil of red that was falling across his vision.

_He’d had enough of talking._

Faster than any mortal could process, he sliced a nail across the inside of the man’s arm. A thin skim of blood welled up, beading across the length before slowly beginning to trickle down. He’d closed his mouth around it before the man’s surprised exclamation even so much as left his lips.

Memories flashed, impressions and images entwined with the richness of the man’s blood as he searched for the answer to his question. He saw himself reflected in David’s mind, a face imprinted across the inside of his eyes, piercing and cunning, aware and dark. He saw sleepless nights and half remembered dreams; he saw unwitting bouts of longing, the pang of loneliness and the yearning for something he didn’t quite understand. He took the man into himself, knowing him, every sullied part - understanding him down to the very foundations as David seized.

He didn’t need much, in fact, he needed to stop. But the man’s blood was a siren song of lust and light, and he became greedy. And while he hadn’t intended to, his fangs sunk deep into the man’s flesh, sealing his lips around the wound as he drank nosily. David’s hand clenched around his shoulder, blunt nails biting through embroidered silk as the sordid rush of pain and pleasure only served to _sweeten_ the man’s taste.

He snarled, lifting the man up, effortlessly cradling him as he brought the arm to his mouth and struck - fangs sinking into flesh, butter-soft and delicate as he gently worried the wound. He willed more blood to the surface, swallowing slowly, suckling at the cut with all the desperation of a newborn as the man arced underneath him, bow-like and pleasure tense.

He growled into the curve of David’s arm as the flow began to lessen, mirroring his groan as spirals of light and color exploded behind his closed lids. The man was exquisite, _no_ , he was _beyond_ that. He’d never tasted his equal, even the Queen’s blood somehow paled in comparison. Awareness rose, a breaching surge as their thoughts suddenly came together, becoming one, if only for an instant, as the truths he’d been seeking nearly bowled him over.

He wrenched himself away with a gasp – almost stumbling as he slammed back against the desk with the dull crack of splintering wood, his very being suddenly thrumming with new life and purpose. Something deep in the blackest reaches of him purred as David’s head lolled – dizzy from pleasure and blood loss.

_Mate._

He licked his fangs, fastidious to a fault, chasing the man’s flavour as the last of him flowed down his throat. _The man was his._ He knew that now. Every inch of him was humming with it.

He leaned in; blameless in his sudden attachment as he pressed a bloody kiss across the man’s forehead, soothing his piteous little mewls as he let David rest against him. He hummed words into the crook of his neck as the wound slowly closed, healing quickly thanks to the enzymes in his saliva as David slowly came down from his high.

“ _Expectantesque diu sum te amica mea_ …”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation: From Latin to English: “Expectantesque diu sum te amica mea…” = “I have been waiting for you a long time, my darling/Finally I have you, my love.”


	3. Chapter 3

It wasn’t until the Talamascan began to stir, muscles twitching - a subtle play just underneath the skin, that he moved. There was a moment of rippling fabric and the chill of the autumn air before they landed in David’s back garden.

He held onto the man tightly as David stumbled, still weak, but mostly disoriented from the flight across town. “Did we just-” David asked, voice thready but growing in strength as he blinked owlishly around at the weed-choked plot.

“We did,” he purred, a hand resting against the small of his back and he guided David towards the door.

David patted his pockets, expression falling despite fever-bright eyes and delightfully mussed appearance. The man looked downright _dishevelled_. It was a good look for him.

“My keys, I left them in the office,” he explained, eyes downcast as he peered through the back window with a frustrated sigh. It was dark, too dark for a mere mortal to see, but to him it shined as brightly as the dawn. Not that he needed to, he’d been here before - more than once over the years, in fact.

“No need,” he replied smoothly, reaching up above the ledge and nimbly collecting the spare that had been placed there for just such an occasion. David just arched a brow.

“It seems as though I haven’t been the only one watching after all,” he observed, expression equal parts surprise and disbelief. _Did the man truly not see how tantalizing he was? How beautiful?_

“Does it distress you, as a historian, that the tables can be so easily turned?” he inquired, turning the key and ushering him inside with a magnanimous sweep of his hand. “That _you_ can be the object of someone’s study? Becoming an unwitting observer to your own life as someone else sifts through it?”

“Is that how _you_ feel?” David countered, curious and guilty all at once as he hung his jacket on the coat-rack.

“Never with you,” he answered, eyes flashing blood-red as David tried to cover his pleased flush by puttering around in the kitchen. He downed a glass of juice and picked through a small container of leftovers, levelling out his blood sugars as his body began replenishing the blood it’d lost. He inhaled, pleased when he sensed the smell of weakness leaving him. He would have to be more careful in the future.

His fangs worried against his lower lip, playful, _considering_. He was going to have to relearn a modicum of self-control as far as David was concerned, that much was clear. _It had been a long time since he’d lost control._

He watched the man with unveiled interest as he ate. The glint of his fork, the scrape of metal against the plastic container, the smell of damp herbs and sautéed pork - it was all very bourgeois despite the sparse living space. It reminded him of France during the reign of Louis XIV – more particularly, the peasants who lived around the confines of the castle proper. They’d had a certain richness to their blood that most, particularly during that era, had lacked - more meat in their diet, perhaps.

“Do you miss it?” David asked, swallowing self-consciously as he fished out the last bite and placed the container in the sink. Clearly struggling to maintain a balance between eagerness and restraint, but not quite succeeding at either.

“In a matter of speaking,” he replied, watching the man bustle about, preparing tea as the scent of a thousand different meals infused the air around his head. He’d long since forgotten what his last mortal meal had been. He’d known once, when he was young, caught between mourning the life he’d left behind and relishing the new. He’d made himself remember.

_When had he forgotten?_

“We don’t just gain knowledge from our prey; we imbibe their taste, their _essence_. All of which is coloured by one’s diet and health, the region in which they live, the food they eat, we all have a taste for a certain type of fare, just as you do. I prefer Mediterranean myself,” he explained, smoothing the brocaded silk of his suit jacket as he joined the man in the sitting room, taking the seat by the fireplace as David haunted the edges of the room, leaning against the doorjamb as he stared openly. “I am quite fond of citrus.”

“Citrus…” David echoed, shaking his head in disbelief as he cleaned the lenses of his glasses habitually – giving himself time to think.

“There was a quaint little bistro in south France whose patrons I was particularly fond of, before the war of course,” he added, steepling his hands at his breast as he recalled the aroma. The chef had been particularly talented, so had his children. _His wife, however, had been delicious_.

“Is that why you slept?” David interjected, forgetting to mask his interest as he crouched down by the mantle and set fire to the kindling already arranged in the hearth. “Through the 50’s, I mean? Because of the war?”

“Indeed,” he replied, delighted, watching appreciatively as the man straightened – lean and long in all the right places. “How did you know?”

“A decade is a long time to go without one of your paintings surfacing,” David pointed out, “I don’t think you have gone more than that between showings either. Organized through an anonymous third party, am I right? You do realize you have more than one investor all but frothing at the mouth? You have people following your work purely for the mystery now, you know.”

“It’s true,” he remarked, smiling broadly. “I must admit the war disgusted me. More so than the first, you understand, such a waste,” tone mild despite the images the words brought forth.

He’d waited until the dust had settled before he’d taken to one of his more remote sanctuaries, hoping that when he woke a better world would be waiting to greet him. He’d hoped that mankind and their petty squabbling would have grown past its long adolescence and started inching forward into adulthood. And while only half of that had proven true, he’d felt invigorated by the shades and colors of this new age.

The sixties had been an interesting era, particularly in North America. It had been a riot of the old and the new, of progressive ideals and bold hopes for the future. The moon landing, the rise of Martin Luther King Junior, the Civil Rights Act - he’d watched it all with burgeoning interest. Countries had been reformed, cities rebuilt and America had been at the heart of it.

“But perhaps we are getting side-tracked,” he pointed out, gifting the man with a munificent stare that was clear in its attentions as David’s heart rate thrummed, pleasant and fast pace from across the room. _Alluring. His._

David thumbed the partially healed wound on his arm, appearing to mull through his reply long before he put it to voice. “About that, did you find out what you wanted to know?”

“You tell me,” he hummed, leaning forward incrementally before he gave in and rose, mirroring David as the man slowly approached, “I believe I have made _my_ intentions _more_ than clear.” The fire crackled in the background, spitting up a cloud of smoke and ash as an ember split, sending sparks arcing dangerously across the carpet, but neither of them noticed.

 “I am not Lestat,” David managed, letting go of a hiccupping gasp as he voiced something that’d clearly been on his mind for a while.

He cocked his head, intrigued before he sensed the meaning under the man’s words. Self-doubt seemed to be inherent to the human condition - such an endearing quality.

“No, you most certainly are _not_ …” he purred, enjoying the mire of emotions that flittered across David’s face before, to his delight, the Talamascan finally decided on affront.

He laughed, speaking over the historian as he sought to reassure him, “Lestat is a child of his times, a product of privilege and noble birth, host to such a contumacious and rebellious personality that, during his mortal life, half his peers either wanted _him_ or wanted him _dead_.”

“I turned him, not simply because he was beautiful to me, but because he was an example of his times, perfect and flawed in all the ways I did not understand after my long sleep. I turned him to better understand his world and to bring a child into my own. _A son._ That is what Lestat means to me,” he explained, inclining his head before he continued.

“But let me assure you, my taste in companions, _in mates_ , is far more… _mature._ ”

It had been a long time since he’d had a lover, and even longer since he’d had a human one. It was the detriment of his more… _particular_ taste. Often the urge to turn his lovers was too great to risk the indulgence. But with David, it was different. With David he was content to risk it. He would pursue the man, court him; David was his, he just didn’t know it yet.

“Do you desire me, David?” he asked, using the man’s distraction as David stilled, shell-shocked by the abrupt change of subject. The question was facetious. But he found he couldn’t help asking all the same. Even if he wanted to, the man wouldn’t have been able to lie to him. It wasn’t in his nature. And besides, he’d already gotten his answer, he’d _tasted_ it.

“I- _yes…”_

Their lips were inches apart, he blinked, uncertain of when that had actually happened. It was an inexcusable lapse, and yet, he could barely bring himself to care. Saliva pooled in the back of his mouth as he scented along the man’s nape, relishing the way David immediately bared it for him. He hissed, the sound echoing in the close space, spiking the man’s scent with that of arousal as David sucked in a ragged breath.

He felt drunk. _Blood drunk._

He inhaled, relishing the hush of David’s pulse and the _want-need-yes-now-please_ that was all but seeping out of his very pores. He felt overwhelmed, drowning, as every sense, every dark thought and innate desire he’d ever held within him, bubbled to the surface. He feltfree, _complete_.

He was taken aback by the man’s boldness when David suddenly closed the distance between them, a flurry of soft flesh and the hard line of a closed mouth kiss. It was chaste, _brief_. In a word, it was very much David, but it pulled a growl, a deep rattling purr, from his throat all the same.

He cupped his hand around the back of David’s head before the historian could pull away, reeling him back in as he nipped at the man’s lip, entreating entrance as David returned the gesture hesitantly. The man’s hardness ground up against his thigh, making him hiss with pleasure as it brushed across his length – a shadow play of sensation as he fought the urge to crush the man against the wall and _rip_ his pleasure from him.

_He was going to enjoy making the Talamascan sing._


	4. Chapter 4

His tongue slipped between the man’s lips when David gasped, glasses falling down the bridge of his nose before he pulled away. He chuckled, tossing the frames towards the armchair as he swallowed the man’s soft _meep_ of protest.

His sigh was decadent when David grew bold, a shiver of genuine pleasure fanning through him as the man’s tongue swirled around his, tracing daringly down the length of a canine and licking his way back into his mouth. He wondered if the man was even aware of the noises he was making, positive he’d be mortified if he did as a string of curses issued from the man’s abused lips.

His fangs caught on David’s lower lip, flooding his mouth with the tartness of crimson. His eyes flashed, red-rimmed and feral as David groaned - pain and pleasure coloring the sound as he cupped him through his slacks, fingers tangling in the belt loops as he started backing David towards the bedroom.

The historian stumbled, falling back against the wall as they paused, caught in the doorframe as he ground himself into the jut of his hip - arching like a feral cat as the blunt edge of David’s nails scraped across his nape. David pulled back, panting, a trickle of blood inching sluggishly down his chin before he seemed to collect himself. The set of his expression was a precursor to the warm hands that suddenly curled around his arms, yanking him forward.

He grinned into the darkness as David hiccupped, pleasure hitched and unsteady as he caught him by the chin, forcing him to bare his throat as he followed the trickle of red up to its source. He chased the taste as his fangs grazed across the man’s neck, scraping twin lines of red before he suddenly whirled, sending the startled historian tumbling across the unmade sheets.

His hand was halfway down David’s slacks by the time he’d finished falling.

The yelp that resulted was more than satisfying. But not nearly as gratifying as when the man bit off a curse, a mishmash of Latin and old English as cold fingers wrapped around his prick. He stroked him, slowly at first, relishing the warmth as the heat of him radiated outwards.

A pleased purr left his lips unbidden, enough that the man stirred underneath him, blinking near-sightedly in the off-light.

“I hadn’t thought that-” David murmured, stuttering through the constants when he added a twist to the upstroke. The Talamascan was close already. “Can we? I mean, can _you_?”

He grinned, understanding, mirth bubbling up in the back of his throat, richer than any blood as David practically _vibrated_ underneath him, caught between surprise, curiosity and arousal as his hips bucked involuntarily, chasing the friction.

“Consorting with mortals is not considered to be wise, but I am aware of my limits.  I promise I will not do anything you aren’t comfortable with,” he assured, leaning down for a kiss. But all intentions of gentleness and due-care flew out the window when David ground up against him, smearing pre-cum into his expensive trousers as the man’s scent clouded over.

_He was so close, almost ready to-_

“I never said you would!” David spluttered, distracted as he thumbed the crown, massaging the slit until David was all but _dripping_ , slicking their conjoined flesh with cum and sweat as he neared his peak.

It was a lie, of course, but an honest one. Because the man had done just about everything _but_. He’d taken the idea into himself in every way that mattered. It lingered in the taint of his blood, reminiscent of few sleepless nights and fantasies that had only disappointed when he’d woken, drenched in sweat and the slick of his own release.

“You’re a terrible liar, David,” he trilled, teasing between kisses, “we really must work on that.”

“There is no literature on the subject,” David fussed, doggedly hanging onto the coat-tails of rationality even as he dug blunt nails into his shoulder blades, cursing him soundly as the roughness of his tongue scraped across his skin.

David reached out, stroking him through the thin fabric of his slacks, but he just batted him away. He was enjoying this far too much to let himself get distracted. There would be time enough for that later.

“I should think not,” he remarked, pausing for effect as he trailed the tip of his nail gently across the man’s perineum – expression turning mischievous when it coaxed a strangled sound.

“Though, I wouldn’t be surprised if the next diary Lestat loses contains some mention of his exploits. He was rather precocious in his youth,” he mused, recalling flashes of moments observed from the rooftops when he’d caught the man’s scent in Rome, in Buenos Aires, Paris, and later, New York.

He smiled. His son had always had a flair for the dramatic, a natural predisposition for disregarding the rules. He’d been wild, even as a human, with a tendency towards the colourful, the theatrical. It was completely gauche of course, but masterful in its own way. It had been part of the reason why he’d been drawn to Lestat in the first place.

“There has been theorizing on the subject, of course,” David trundled on, frowning. Looking as scandalised as he could manage despite his flushed skin and red-bitten lips.

“…Connections made through blood drinking and _ah_ \- sexual…intimacy- _Christ_!” the man exclaimed, spine arching as he stroked him in earnest now.

“And?” he prompted, enjoying the switch as the normally composed man _melted_ , losing his train of thought completely as David wrenched himself up, head cradled against his chest as the man bit into his fist in an effort to keep quiet.

The hand he’d wrapped around the man’s prick faltered, rhythm stuttering as David’s palm curled around the back of his neck, unknowingly setting his senses reeling as some part of him, deeply entrenched and instinctual, _yowled._

Because despite having barely undone his zipper, a growingly desperate bid to ease the discomfort from his throbbing prick, he was right there with him. He was caught up in the same thrum of energy, the same rush for completion as every blessed sensation, every mewl and awkward fit of movement brought him that much closer to losing himself.

The decadence of the previous centuries paled in comparison – to this – to _having_ this.

When David came, he did it quietly, all seizing muscles and unassuming curses. A reaction that was starkly opposite to himself as he growled out his pleasure a second later, surprising them both when he bared his teeth and came, spurting and twitching within the confines of his slacks.

And honestly, he didn’t know who was more pleased about the entire affair, himself or David.

It wasn’t until later, much later in fact, when the sun was within hours of rising and the Talamascan nearly _slurring_ with exhaustion and pleasure, that David spoke again.

“… _Christ_. Marius, I-”

He collapsed against the headboard, a smug smile flirting with the corners of his lips as he arranged David at his side – the action was coddling but not completely selfless as David’s warm, sweat-soaked skin glided across his. _He could get used to this._

The frame was already cracked, groaning under their combined weight as his head lolled, gorged and over satisfied as he painted idle spirals of red across the man’s skin, before David finally continued.

“Marius, I don’t think I want to - well what I mean is, if we continue - I don’t think I am cut out for-”

David’s face was a road map of endearing oversensitivity and something else, an emotion he didn’t recognize. It was something close to rapture, close to bliss and yet, at the same time, _neither_ of those things. David would teach him of such things, of that he was sure.

“You will,” he crooned, tasting the surety, the inevitability of it on his skin as he laved the mark on David’s forearm, soothing and disturbing in equal measures. The man would ask for the bite, perhaps not today, perhaps not even within a month’s time, but eventually, he would.

“But until then, there is much we can share, yes?” he hummed, smirking into David’s skin as his nails arrowed down towards his navel, favouring his cock with an unrepentant little squeeze, eye teeth glinting in the low light.

David just groaned, caught between arousal and irritation as he rolled on top of him. He let the human flip them, chuckling decadently as David’s teeth, blunt yet delightful, sunk into his throat, ensuring that _neither_ of them would be leaving David’s flat for quite some time.

**Author's Note:**

> Authors Note: The title is Latin for ‘emerge’ - meaning “to rise up or out.”


End file.
